


Sing To Me Sweet (just like my memory)

by OnABadBet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnABadBet/pseuds/OnABadBet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Dean wants to do with this space of theirs is make his brother <em>scream</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing To Me Sweet (just like my memory)

Dean likes the bunker for a lot of reasons.

He likes fact that it's more like a house of his own than any other place he's ever been. He likes the kitchen, likes his _bedroom_ , likes the shower room, with its ridiculous water pressure and massive hot water tank and general lack of cramped, grimy walls that probably haven't seen the right side of a scrub brush in a solid few years. He likes that he can do what he wants with it.

The first thing, though. The first thing he wants to do with this space of theirs is make his brother _scream_.

It's not that he's...dissatisfied. Fuck, no. His sex life is pretty fucking awesome, thanks. But Sam? Sam's  _quiet_ , which just doesn't sit well with Dean. He remembers being sixteen, waking up in the middle of the night, Dad gone on a hunt, with Sammy thrashing and whimpering and  _moaning_  in his sleep -- in his sleep, because yeah, Dad had given them both that talk already. Throughout, Sam had blushed hard,  _defiantly_ , enough that Dean was half convinced he would find some way to weasel out of his teenage years and skip the awkward hand-to-dick reacquaintance entirely. No way was his prude little brother  _intentionally_ hamming it up with Dean half a room away.

Point is, Dean knows Sam can make some fucking noise. It's maybe been beaten out of him by a lifetime of smothering those obscene sounds with pillows, murdering them before they can ever get out of his throat to begin with -- habit so worn into him from living first under Dad's nose, briefly in college dorms, always out of seedy motels with walls more like curtains -- but the potential's there.

Dean's gonna drag it out of him any way he can.

So he gets Sam where he wants him. Gets Sam flat to the mattress, thighs spread wide to make room for Dean's shoulders. Gets himself three fingers knuckle-deep inside his baby brother, Sam's heavy dick pressing tight against the flat of his tongue, the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat.

Dean gets Sam laid out, nice and pretty and patient, and gets to work.

He presses his tongue harder to the vein as he pulls off Sam's cock, presses a wet, clinging kiss to the head. One of Sam's hands fumbles at his shoulder, soft, near-inaudible noise of disappointment as he backs off, and Dean flashes a grin up the line of his brother's body.

"Want somethin', Sammy?" He pets affectionately at Sam's belly, scratches his fingertips through coarse hair, basks in the aborted little jerk of muscle that Sam can't quite cover up.

Sam uses his other hand to push the sweaty hair off his own forehead. "Screw you, Dean," he says mildly.

Dean grins again and flexes his fingers, quiet reminder that they're still there. When Sam scowls down at him, he twists until he can stroke the tips once, hard, so fleeting it might not have happened, over his prostate. "And who's getting fucked?" he asks, conversational.

Sam jerks like he's been hit, head tossed back to the pillow, lower lip caught snug between his teeth as his fingers catch and claw at the sheets.

One glimpse of sharp white teeth holding that pretty mouth shut, and Dean says, " _No_ ," maybe a little sharp, because Sam's mouth falls open in confusion, little furrow between his brows sinking deeper in response. Dean takes the opportunity, curls his fingers, harder, longer.

A breath punches out of Sam's open mouth, sweet little moan right on its heels. Dean hides his smile against Sam's thigh.

"Good boy," he praises, and Sam looks more confused than ever. Smooth drag of his mouth up to Sam's hip, sharp, sucking kiss to the jut of bone, another thrust with his fingers, slower, that Sam arches his back and rocks down into with a satisfied sound. Dean wants to bottle it up and _sell it_. "Good boy," he repeats, and his own voice is cracking a little. "Make some noise for me." He lets himself settle into a rhythm, steady shove and twist with his wrist, putting the rest of his body into it.

"Make some -- _what_?" Sam tries to say, except Dean chooses that moment to wrap his lips around Sam's dick, slick slide down until the head touches the slight give of Dean's throat, and the last word cuts off with a sharp " _ah._ "

The sound goes straight to his cock, dizzy-quick pulse of it that has Dean pressing his own hips hard to the mattress. He moans around Sam's cock and the head sinks shallowly into his throat, muscles fluttering as he gags and pulls back. Dean's still fighting for air when Sam's hands find his shoulders and pull; he works his lube-wet fingers from Sam's ass, soaks up the little grunt Sam makes, and gets his knees under him, crawls up until they're resting chest to chest.

Sam gives him a sharp look, assessing. When Dean matches it with a smirk, Sam mirrors it, leans up, nudges his nose against Dean's cheek. "You gonna fuck me anytime soon?" he asks.

"Gonna fuck you," Dean agrees.

The first touch to his hole has Sam's breath hitching erratically, which Dean's happy enough to take as a step in the right direction. The first slow push, just the head sinking in, has Sam shoving back into it. Another handful of stuttering thrusts has him as deep as he'll go, wet heat clinging tight around his cock, balls pressed to Sam's ass. He gives an experimental twist; all of the air rushes out of Sam's mouth, slight edge of a whine buried in there somewhere. He does it again, and yeah, _there_ it is.

Dean shifts, rests his weight on one elbow, slides his hand into Sam's hair, keeps thrusting. "C'mon, baby," and Sam gives him an irritated look. He angles his hips, thrusts _hard_ , and the look melts away. Sam keens.

"That's it," he murmurs, ducks down those last couple of inches. His lips skid across Sam's cheek, and he says, "Come on, sweetheart, want you to scream for me."

"You're...fucking...ridiculous," Sam grates.

"Nah," Dean says. "Just a --" He chokes a little as Sam clenches around him, laughs his way through it. "Just a bit tired of you holding out on me, 's all." He gets his free hand around Sam's dick and jerks him how he knows he likes it, hard, unpredictable. Sam's breath is damp and quick against Dean's face; he's getting worked up the way Dean wants him to, the way he needs him to.

He presses his thumb to the slit on the upstroke, nail catching gently in the firm-soft give of his cockhead, and Sam finally, _finally_ cries out, hoarse and used like he's been going all night. It sinks into Dean, sinks into his bones. He grins. "Yeah, just like that, Sammy." Sam whimpers, doesn't hold back, and Dean feels it in his toes. "Good boy."


End file.
